


And Words Are Futile Devices

by kinglychan (avius)



Series: comfort in the crook of your elbow [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Idols, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non AU, Sleep Deprivation, They are Gay and Stubborn, not grace level but its there, wow are these tags for my fic or my autobiography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avius/pseuds/kinglychan
Summary: It’s not irregular for Seungcheol to find Minghao still practicing hard when he goes to leave the practice rooms. It’s not irregular for them to find comfort in eachother; Cheol protecting Hao and Hao grounding Cheol. And it’s not irregular for them to leave words and intentions unsaid.Because Seungcheol was stubborn, and Minghao was too.





	And Words Are Futile Devices

**Author's Note:**

> a lil angsty cheolhao oneshot bc i love my hardworking boys but i also love torturing myself. 
> 
> listen to futile devices by sufjan stevens if you wanna vibe with stubborn gays. 
> 
> dedicated to grace (@liqhters) for yelling with me abt rarepairs and motivating me to write.

Cheol wasn’t surprised by the light that split like yellow milk into the practice rooms hallway. The lack of surprise should have fostered concern, but if it did, he couldn’t tell, as his heart was already full of such worries. His head was swimming with concerns, always was but more so than usual, as there were very few members stubborn enough to stay practicing this late. Some managers liked to call it dedication, but Seungcheol, peripherals permanently pinned on the weary smiles and stressed jitters of his brothers, was set on the word stubbornness. In his mind, it wasn’t a fault, merely a neutral, unbiased descriptor, in the same way any pro and con balanced themselves. After all, all idols are raised on sippy cups of stubbornness - never be content with your performance, never be content with your effort, never be content with your looks, never be content with your success. Cheol himself knew he was probably one of the most stubborn in the group, especially when it came to a lack of satisfaction. But this, this furrowed Seungcheol’s already tired and stressed-knitted brow. The door handle was cold as his hand turned it.

He opened the door of the studio, his already sleep-deprived brain shuddering against the wall of music he was welcomed by. It was a base instrumental he recalled Jihoon had showed him and the performance team a few days back to grasp a feel of Bumzu’s and his conceptual ideas. It wasn’t a full track, more just an easily looped arrangement. Repetitive but rapid, its beat gathered his resting heart in its hands and began to stir him from his growing exhaustion. Exhaustion that Cheol knew should have overridden the illogical logic of the other guy in the room. But hadn’t, if the sight of two sets of blurred limbs was anything to go by. He stepped through the doorway, closing the heavy door behind him, and his own reflection greeted him in the wall of mirrors.

He watched the boy dance, mesmerised in the way one can be only when experiencing another human immersed in passion. The two synchronised forms were a flurry of forgiving soft lines and jarring expressions of power, in an equilibrium that only Minghao had perfected. His limbs pushed and pulled, a cinematic battle with the air - the air around him but also the air in Seungcheol’s own lungs. Minghao’s real eyes were clasped shut; his shoulders saw the world and pulled the rest with him. Like a leaf in a summer storm, overwhelmed by the force of his environment but not unwillingly so, he flung himself through each leap and extended himself to the fingertips. The looped music began to swell, as it had when it first caught Cheol’s attention outside in the corridor, and Minghao found his blind way back to the centre point, finally opening his eyes to meet his reflection’s. He spun, head snapping with each rotation on his mirrored eyes. He lifted his arms, Cheol’s inhale growing with them, pushing them up toward the ceiling in a beautiful line of form. Minghao continued through six, seven, turns, as the music reached its peak, before dropping his head back and jumping from his place in attitude in a stunning release of the gathering energy.

Seungcheol exhaled then, chest full and baited by beauty. It wasn’t a jarring sight for Cheol, but Minghao’s movements and enrapturement as he danced still caused the same reaction each and every time. Cheol knew it was truly a gift, one refined and perfected with countless hours of gruelling work, but a gift nonetheless.

“Hao,” he called out, any expression of his thoughts kept selfishly - stubbornly - burrowed under his leadership persona. It was selectively the tone he needed to use right now. Regardless, his call went unnoticed as the song’s rhythm evened out and started again. Minghao shifted to the floor, long sweeping legs strong and movements electrified, and Seungcheol took this as his chance to move to the sound system. He was still enraptured, the pure energy that radiated from Minghao in the room was hard to shake, but the concern for the boy’s health was overwhelming. He found the phone, cautiously sliding the volume lower. Arms thrown back mid movement, Minghao’s eyes opened and frantically searched in the silence. They landed on Seungcheol’s in the mirror, and with a huff of defeat, the boy spun on his heel.

“Coups.”

A light smirk graced Seungcheol’s face - Minghao was not so stubborn after all.

“Minghao,” Seungcheol echoed, mimicking the exasperated and marginally whining tone.

Minghao just rolled his eyes, going over to grab at his phone and sweat towel next to it. It was still in Cheol’s hands, so he whipped it behind his back before the other could do so.

“Hyung,” Minghao said again, whine now exaggerated and thick. He lunged again, hoping to catch the leader off guard but ended up hovering under his chin bent with his arms reaching around the older’s torso. He glanced up, and Cheol’s heart melted even more, tiredness irradiated in favour of beautiful gooey warmth. He wanted to scream.

“It’s half past two,” Seungcheol settled for instead, to which Hao groaned and dropped his head onto the older’s shoulder. “When were you planning on stopping?”

“I don’t need to be babied,” Minghao snapped, but his body betrayed his words as he collapsed into the waiting arms.

The silence in the soundproof room was hollow, filled only by Minghao’s steadily evening breaths and heartbeat. Seungcheol wasn’t particularly searching for an answer, and Minghao knew this, but they paused like an unfinished melody before either spoke or moved again.

“I needed to practice,” Minghao finally responds, twisting his face to burrow his nose in the join of neck and collarbone. He was warm against Cheol’s skin, sweat sheened forehead sticky against his beating jugular.

There were many things Seungcheol wished he could say. That the boy’s recent hiatus wasn’t lazy or slacking but was a needed time healing, and that all twelve of them believed so. That what they had was fragile, which meant their work deserved intensity, but also sacredness too. That an hour of sleep surpassed any hour of practice in its ability to produce greatness. That he was already great.

But Seungcheol was stubborn, and Minghao was too.

“That’s not a track yet,” because it isn’t and probably won’t be and, even though he knew Minghao wasn’t choreographing, it was a point hard to dispute. Minghao found a way to anyway.

“Yet,” he repeated, his smartass tone only half-effective as it came out muffled against Cheol’s neck. Seungcheol flicked his neck at the disrespect, only to be met with a fluttering heart at the nuzzle it caused.

Feeling brave, Hao’s next words were clearer and amused. “You’re still here too.”

It wasn’t as if the stress he was momentarily free from crashed down on Cheol, but more so that he saw it again like a shark in an aquarium. Hao was his glass. He hummed, arms snug around Hao’s middle, and found comfort in the stability of his feet.

Seungcheol had been wearily spinning on his chair in his studio for two hours before he looked at the clock. Blue biro ink seeping onto his lips, he had being chewed on his pen absentmindedly as his head swirled with everything and nothing. Their schedule was brimmed full, but regardless, the leader found himself using each moment of catching his breath giving it to others. The notepad in front of him hadn’t been empty, but may as well have been. Scribbled syllables meant the same as nothing. His mind had felt akin to the crosshatched page, all indistinguishable tangles and no value. He needed to shut it down. He had reluctantly retrieved his phone from the top desk draw. Thirty emails sat expectantly on the lockscreen. Regardless, it had passed 2am which meant the streets would be clear enough for Seungcheol to run until he collapsed and dragged himself back to the dorm. It wasn’t a shut down, but it came close. He had made it into the main hallway before his brain had registered the light that spilled onto the floor. His brain was tired, and he hadn’t planned on sleep before checking on Minghao. He supposed he wasn’t one to talk.  
  
But now, with the soft curls of Minghao’s sweeping bangs nestled under his chin, all he wanted was to curl up and hold the boy until his breathing evened into sleep.

But Seungcheol was stubborn, and Minghao was too.

“We both need to sleep.” The gravelling tone of his sleep-robbed voice came out gruffer than expected. Minghao slinked out of his arms, not blushing but head hanging low. Seungcheol didn’t move. He didn’t even take his eyes off of the other, as Minghao ran long fingers through his shaggy hair. He gathered it in his left hand and twisted the band around it in his right until his mullet was swept back into a messy bun. Seungcheol found himself clinging to each flyaway as if he were capsized at sea. The chill that flooded him at the lack of Minghao in his arms made it feel like he was drowning anyway.

Minghao’s sweat drenched tee shirt clung to his long back as he moved to the other wall to get his satchel. Cheol felt warmth creeping up to his ears, so he huffed and turned to turn off the sound system. He made his way to the door, hands burried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, and pulled the drawstring of the hood tight. He didn’t look over his shoulder until the sound of Minghao’s footsteps stopped. Their eyes met, both unaware of the warmth and melancholy and longing and guilt swirling in the irises of the other, and Seungcheol cracked a gentle smile. Minghao mimicked it, and Cheol was reminded of the days where the younger would cling to Soonyoung’s or Mingyu’s or his side, mouthing each word said to keep up with the conversation. The familiarity grounded him again, as Minghao always did, and it took more effort than it should have to keep his hands from reaching out. He focused his energy instead on his responsibilities of closing up the practice rooms.

The walk back was silent and cold; a stark change from bright lights and humidity of the practice room. They bumped shoulders as they passed silent apartments and empty shells of office buildings that their chests could empathise with. Cheol never played favourites with the members - he knew the potential of some jealous stubborn boys all too well - but as the side profile of Minghao’s face dipped in and out of the glow of street lamps, he indulged in the safety of the moment.

It took barely two minutes until Minghao shivered with the night breeze, his thin overcoat barely substantial in the autumnal chill. Seungcheol, spurred by the creeping cold and maybe the gentle smile that pulled at the curve of the younger’s lips, he snuck an arm around Minghao’s waist and pulled him close. Aside from a shakier exhale, he made no move to pull away, so Seungcheol didn’t either. Their bodies fitted together the way their presences did: snugly, groundingly, stubbornly. Minghao didn’t move until he scanned the pair access into their dorms.

Seungcheol’s breath was baited as they walked the stairs. The quettion clear in his head but fuzzy against his tongue; he wanted more than he was capable of asking for. He wanted to invite Minghao to his room, or himself to his, to loan the boy his sweatshirt, to fuck it all and lift his weary bones and carry him to bed.

But Seungcheol was stubborn, and Minghao was too.

So they nodded softly and turned away as the corridor split. At the soft click of Minghao and Mingyu’s room’s door, Seungcheol exhaled, shoulders heavy. He entered to see the softly breathing bodies of his best friends, Jihoon and Jeonghan, soundly asleep in their beds. With a sigh, he joined them in sleep, knowing the sun would soon rise and all of these struggles would be forgotten only to be repeated again.

If he piled half of his breakfast onto Minghao’s plate as he served the group a few hours later, Seungcheol didn’t admit it, not even to himself. If Minghao noticed, he didn’t pay the leader anymore than a slightly wider smile. Because Seungcheol was stubborn, and Minghao was too.

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe i actually wrote something lmao hope you enjoyed! there’s room for a sequel so if that sounds like something you want let me know below!
> 
> twitter: [@kinglychan](https://mobile.twitter.com/kinglychan)  
> 


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